


Who We Choose

by ivorykeys09



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:24:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorykeys09/pseuds/ivorykeys09
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 2x04, excludes the two-part finale. </p><p>One long Don/Sloan story. </p><p>Don Keefer falls in love with Sloan Sabbith at the grocery store.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who We Choose

**Author's Note:**

> I love this pairing. I haven't written in a while, so I'm a little rusty, but I hope you enjoy!
> 
> This is post-2x04 and excludes everything that happened in the two-part finale.

**i.**

 

“God _,_ that hurt,” she mutters, examining her bruised hand in the elevator. “But _fuck_ did that feel good.”

“It was a pretty good hit,” he says, smirking at the flashback playing through his mind. He nods towards her leg. “How’s the knee?”

She shrugs. “Fine. He doesn’t have a whole lot goin’ on down there, so... I barely felt it.”

He just shakes his head, breathing out a chuckle. She looks over at the sound and her eyes crinkle in amusement. “What?” Don just shakes his head again.

When he’s holding open the door to the taxi he’s hailed for her, he tries to think of another word besides _impressive_ to describe her. He doesn’t think there’s another word worthy of Sloan Sabbith.

“You were pretty, uh, amazing up there,” he says, resigning to the mediocre term.

He can’t tell if she’s blushing from his words or if her cheeks are red from the summer wind, but her skin definitely gets rosier. “Thanks for everything, Don.” She leans in to press a kiss to his cheek, so quick he almost doesn’t believe it happens, and then gets into the cab. The window rolls down a few inches. “See you tomorrow.”

And he’s a goner.

  

**ii.**

 

Two weeks later he spots her walking out of her office upstairs, holding a box of belongings. From his place a few feet away he can see a stapler and her desk phone and his heart does this thing where it plummets to the floor because...where the _hell_ is she going?

He calls out after her and when he sees heads turn, he realizes how far his voice carried. She turns as he apologizes, “Sorry, that was loud.” 

“What’s up?” She seems to be in a good enough mood.

Don’s brow furrows in confusion. “What’s with the box? Are you leaving?”

“Oh.” She fiddles with said box, shifting it under her right arm, and exclaims, “I finally got my own office!”

“Finally wore Charlie down?” he asks in a cool-guy tone, even though he’s embarrassed to admit how much relief runs through his bones. 

“I may have threatened to call HR about his stupid ‘Money Skirt’ nickname.” She scrunches her nose cutely and blushes. “I’m excited, but I’ll miss Holmes.”

“Grant’s puzzled dog?”

She nods and looks at him in this awed, unbelieving way. Like she can’t comprehend he actually listened to her that day on his floor and remembered something.

There’s a moment of awkward silence before he realizes he’s being a bit rude. “Need any help?”

Touched, Sloan’s smile widens. “I’m okay for now, I think. But thanks.”

He nods and looks at the ground, shakes it off. “No problem.”

She hesitates, but then eventually begins the walk towards her new office. He watches her stop after a few feet and turn around to ask, “Can you come by in a little bit? I need help hanging pictures.”

Don crosses his arms, fighting a smirk, and jabs, “So that’s all I’m good for?”

The box’s contents jingle as she shrugs a shoulder. In a tone far flirtier than he’s used to hearing—directed towards _him_ at least—she says, “You’re the one who said he was ‘handy,’ Keefer. I gotta see it for myself.”

He flashes back to the chair tire incident. Although he _does_ remember telling her how handy and mechanical he is, he also remembers the chair rolling him flat on his ass in front of her. Twice.

“Don? This box is really heavy.” 

He snaps back to the present. “Sorry. Um, yeah. I’ll come by.”

“Thanks. I’m that one.” She points to an office down the hall.

He shows up thirty minutes later with a hammer and nails he’s scored from the janitor. Her office is a complete mess, with papers and folders sprawled across the floor and a few more half-opened boxes scattered everywhere. He sees Sloan holding up two frames against the wall, mapping out where they should be placed, before instructing him where to hammer in the nails. He hangs up four degrees—her undergrad, two PhDs, and faculty certification from Columbia—and a variety of pictures. There’s a photo of her shaking hands with President Obama, a still from that time she was on _Good Morning America,_ the official ACN team photo, and a few family pictures. He takes a moment to study one in particular before hanging it up: a wedding portrait. His eyes go right to Sloan—not the bride—and it takes three seconds to discern it’s from her sister’s wedding. For starters, Sloan is the maid of honor, but even more obvious is how identical the two women are.

“Your sister?” he asks, even though he knows the answer.

She’s crouched on the floor now, rooting through a box, but pauses to look up at him. “Yeah. Elise. That was from her wedding last year.” She resumes rifling through her stuff for another second.  “Fun day.”

“Older or younger?”

She flashes a sly smile and stands up. “Guess.”

He looks at the photo again and thinks for a beat. It’s difficult to tell; he’d almost say they’re twins. But if Sloan had a twin, he’d definitely know about it.

Right?

He just goes for it. “You’re younger.”

“Bingo.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, takes a step closer to him, and points out the rest of the members of her family. In addition to her sister and brother-in-law, her mom, dad, and grandmother are part of the lineup. Wait, no. There’s also a...dog? In a wedding photo? When he starts to ask what that’s about, she rolls her eyes and says, “You don’t want to know.”

He hangs up the photo, straightens it, and steps back.   

It’s silent for a minute, so Sloan takes the opportunity to look over their handiwork and all of the frames on the wall. He _is_ quite handy. After a once-over she notices his gaze is still on the wedding photo.

“You looked beautiful,” he finally says.

She did. The silk dress she wore glided down her body like a waterfall, wrapping around her as smooth as skin. The eggplant color looked perfect against her tanned complexion. He’s noticed that before—every time she wears a shade of purple, the specks of green in her eyes become even more captivating. But honestly, it's her smile that far outshines the dress. 

When he tells her that, Sloan swallows thickly. “Thanks.” She thinks she should say something else, but no words come to mind. She also ignores the tingling in her eyes. She’s heard a lot of compliments in her life—has been called every name in the book—but there’s something about his words that nearly knocks the wind out of her. He’s honestly one of the most genuine men she knows.

She clears her throat. “It was a happy day. I love her husband. They’d been together for...god, six years? Five years? Something like that.” She smiles wide. “It was one big party; went on for hours. My feet hurt for days after all the dancing I did. I totally brought the house down, by the way,” she adds seriously. “Remember that week I could barely walk last year?”

Don thinks back and laughs, totally remembering a limping Sloan. “Where do they live?”

“Philadelphia. They’re both doctors at CHOP.”

“So your family’s not intimidating at all,” he deadpans, definitely more frightened of her than he was before.

“Nah, we really aren’t,” she refutes, but then reconsiders. “Well, my dad’s kind of scary. Definitely scary.”

Don makes a mental note to Google him later after he’s had a drink.

“She’s due with their first baby any day now.”

That happened fast. “Wow,” he says. He looks over to her and sees a spark of something in her eyes that looks familiar. He’s pretty sure it’s the same emotion he felt when his older brother had his first kid. While exciting, it just separated them in a way no other thing had before, since his nephew signified a phase in life he _himself_ had yet to experience. He attempts to brighten her mood. “Auntie Sloan. It’s got a ring to it.”

She perks up at that. “World’s most kick-ass aunt.”

He admires the smattering of freckles on her cheeks and nose and agrees quietly. “Yeah.”

 

**iii.**

 

Annoyingly, Sloan has blinds installed in her office window, so he can’t just peek through the glass to see if she’s busy anymore. He actually has to knock on the door. She swears it’s only because she’s convinced Charlie has some way of telling that she’s not working—i.e., watching stupid YouTube videos—by just _glancing_ through her window. 

(It’s actually not that hard to tell; she does this thing where she worries her bottom lip between her teeth when she’s analyzing stocks. It’s frustratingly cute.)

So yeah. He now has to knock.

He waits for her voice to beckon him in, but opens it when it never comes. The rest of the office is quiet—most have gone home already—but he can see a little hint of light through her blinds.

Usually she’s sitting slumped in her chair, feet up on the desk, and scrolling casually through emails and headlines. He’s not prepared for what he sees: a sleeping Sloan, head resting in her arms on her desk, snoring softly. He smiles to himself—he didn’t bet on her being a snorer.

He taps on her shoulder lightly and smirks. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty.”

She snaps her head up, startled, and looks at him with blinking eyes. There’s sleep lines on her cheeks and her hair’s a little messed up and her shirt’s crazy wrinkled and Don’s heart does a little jump at the sight. She’s already changed out of her broadcast clothes, and although she can wear the hell out of designer dress, he definitely prefers her more casual. It’s only skinny jeans and a button-down, but she looks just as beautiful.

She rubs her eyes and looks at the non-existent watch on her wrist. “What time is it?” she says, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Eleven-thirty. What are you still doing here?”

“Scrabble.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Scrabble,” she repeats. “I was playing Scrabble. I guess I dozed off. Damn it.” She’s looking at her computer now, eyes darting around the screen. “Oh, for god's sake. _Flapjack?_ He got 356 points on the word _flapjack?_ ” She’s shaking her head, visibly stewing, and harshly exits the game.

That gets him to speak up. “Uh, who’s ‘he’? And how in the hell can one get 356 points on a single play?”

“He stretched the word between two triple-word squares,” she tells him in an _isn’t it obvious_  way. Don almost feels embarrassed for not knowing, but then he remembers he’s _normal_ and plays Scrabble like a _normal_ person who’s goal is to get their word to break a _normal_ 10 points. Not Sloan.

“Um, who is ‘he’?” Don asks again.

“ScrabbleKing458. The jerk.”

“Oh. Okay. Cool.” He rubs his hand against his stubbled chin and lets her answer sink in. It’s just a stranger on the internet. Probably a kid. “Anyway. I wanted to talk to you about the B story today. How come you didn’t go into the specifics on—”

“I can’t get over this flapjack thing,” she interrupts, looking at him in a way that tells him she didn’t listen to a word he’d just said. “I mean _flapjack?_ ”

He leans against the bookcase opposite her and crosses his arms. “Seriously?”

She focuses on him. “Sorry. I’m starving and tired and you were asking me something about something I said a few hours ago...or something? Right?” She laughs at herself and says the word for the fourth time in eight seconds. “Something.”

He chuckles, then shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not important. Go home. Eat something. Go to bed.”

She stands up, slides her jacket on, and pulls her ACN cap over her hair. “I wonder what I’ll eat,” she mutters to herself, before throwing random stuff into her purse. Her eyes widen. “Ohhh you know what sounds really good right now?”

Thirty minutes later he finds himself sitting across from Sloan Sabbith at IHOP.  He can’t believe there’s actually an IHOP in Manhattan, but there is. ( _East Village_ , she’d told him.  _Three blocks from your apartment. How do you not know this, Don?_ )

She’s got one hand wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate and the other cutting bites of her pancake with a fork. She takes a syrup-lathered mouthful and audibly moans. He may be tired and rather not be sitting in a germ-infested booth, but yeah he’d do anything to hear that again.

“This is so fucking good.”

“Clearly,” he says, hiding his amusement by taking a sip of decaf coffee. She’s got a little whipped cream on her upper lip and it’s probably the most distracting thing in the world right now.

“I’ve got a Prada suit I need to fit into tomorrow. Fuck you ScrabbleKing458,” she chides again, but still takes another big bite of her pancake.

“So...” he begins, not sure where he’s going with this sentence, “How did you know where I live?”

She swallows, sets down her fork, and—thank god—licks the whipped cream off her lip.

“I don’t know. I think you’ve mentioned it before at a party or something.” She’s pretty nonchalant about it, but sometimes he can’t read her.

“Really?” he asks, doubtful. He’s definitely never given up that info at a work party. Willingly, at least.

She shrugs. “Yes. Or maybe Maggie mentioned it?  Who cares. Does it matter?”

“No.”

Sloan takes another sip of her cocoa and asks, “What’s on tap for—”

“Can you not go—”

He asks at the same time of her question, and so he stops immediately.

“Sorry, what?” she asks.

“Nothing.” He picks up her fork and takes a bite of pancake. It’s disgustingly sweet and amazing.

Her eyes narrow, challenging him. “What were you going to say?” She pulls away her plate before he can use it as a distraction again.

Dropping the fork, he releases a breath and runs a nervous hand through his hair. He knows he’s fidgeting, but he can’t really help it.

“Don.”

He emits a resigned sigh and then meets her eyes, taking a quiet minute to just focus on them. When he finally does ask, his voice sounds slightly embarrassed. But he doesn’t really care at this point. “Can you not go out with NFL players anymore?”

If she’s surprised by his question, she hides it well. She sits back, shifts to a more comfortable position, and studies him. Takes in his pilled flannel shirt, the way he rolls his sleeves to his elbows, his two-day scruff that’s equal parts lazy and sexy, and the warm feeling she’s still experiencing about his lips being on something hers were just on moments before.

Testing, she asks, “Just football players?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

She picks up her fork again and drags the last piece of pancake through the pile of syrup. She doesn’t eat it...just twirls it around and around, thinking.

Finally, “Okay.”

 

**iv.**

 

“Hey, you wanna get lunch tomorrow?”

Her gaze moves from her computer to her doorway, where Don is standing. Well, half of Don. Because while his upper body is in her office—wedged in the door opening—his feet stay planted in the hallway outside. It’s three days after their pancake jaunt and she’s ashamed to say she’s been on pins and needles waiting for this all week.

She’s still surprised though. “Uh...yeah. Okay.”

“Great.” He smiles and lifts his papers. “I gotta go give these rewrites to Elliot.”

“Okay.” And then he shuts the door and is gone. Her heart is racing a little bit, because she can’t believe that just happened, and she’s kind of tempted to run to Kenzie’s office and freak out. But she’s got some numbers to look over and papers to read, so she forces herself to focus.

This thing that’s going on between her and Don—because it’s most definitely a thing—she wants it to be just _them_ for now.

Her thoughts are interrupted when the door opens again. It’s Don. “What day is it?”

She has to think about that one, too. “I believe it’s Friday.”

He nods and shuts the door behind him. He’s still got Elliot’s notes in his hands and is definitely late to his meeting, but he walks over to her anyway.

She barely has time to ask him what’s up before he stops at her desk, leans on it with his left hand, and taps twice on the rim of her baseball hat with his right. He’s so close she can smell his aftershave and it clouds her senses in a way she isn’t used to just yet.

“Screw lunch. I’m taking you to dinner. Because tomorrow’s Saturday and we don’t need to be here.”

She rests her elbow on the desk, props her chin in her hand, and grins up at him. “Fancy.”

Absently, he outlines the rim of her hat with his finger. “I know as employees of primetime television we don’t have many evenings free, but I’m so goddamn sick of going on lunch dates I could scream.”

Sloan cocks a brow, teasing, “So it happens often?”

“No. But still.”

She smiles at his honesty. Besides Maggie (and now _her_ ) there’s been no other woman lately. She likes that. A lot. “All right. Dinner tomorrow. Where?”

“Leave the details up to me, Sabbith.” He taps her hat with finality and backs away to the door.

She’s still not satisfied with that. “But what will I need to wear?” she complains dramatically.

Their phones go off simultaneously, cutting off her whine. Sloan ignores it, Don doesn’t. “Meeting in five,” he reads. “Conference room.”

“Don!”

“Meeting in five,” he repeats, then shuts the door.

He picks her up the next night, just like he’d promised. Sloan lives on the Upper East Side, placing her close to both ACN and Columbia, on a quiet, tree-lined street. Her condo is insane—nestled on the second and third floor of a limestone, pre-war building with gorgeous flowerboxes on every window. It’s three times the size of his apartment, meaning it has three times as much natural light. Her furniture is somehow comfortable and stylish all at the same time, with soft colors and pretty accent pieces adorning every room. Her couch is velvet: a deep gray velvet that is so plush and luxurious he wants to spend $5000 of his own money to buy one himself.

He knows all of this because after their dinner, which was fun and romantic and flirty and awkward, they watch the news and make-out on that grey velvet $5000 couch before falling asleep next to one another for the first of many times.

 

**v.**

 

Breezing into Will’s office after the broadcast, totally not invited but also not caring, Sloan takes a seat in front of his desk. “Hey bro,” she says happily, immediately propping her legs up to rest on his tabletop. “Good show tonight.”

“Is that a thing now? You calling me ‘bro?’” He barely looks up from the paper he’s reading.

She purses her lips in thought, then nods. “Yeah. You started it.”

Now he looks up. “No I didn’t. _You_ did.”

She takes a second to think back, but shakes her head firmly. “No. You called me ‘sis’ first.”

He sighs, not caring enough to point out that she did in fact start the whole thing, and concedes. “Fine. Get your feet off my desk. _Sis._ ”

Sloan just smiles at him, despite his crankiness, and puts her feet on the floor. “Sooo...” she begins, voice purposefully vague to grab his attention. When he still doesn’t look up, she continues, “As my big brother...“

“I’m not—”

“I need to tell you something.”

All he wants to do after this incredibly long day is read the fucking newspaper, but her tone finally makes him put it down and give her his full attention. “What?”

“I started dating someone.”

He rolls his eyes and starts to pick up the paper again. “Don’t you have a girlfriend you can tell this to?”

“No! I don’t! Well, I have Mac. But I want to talk to _you_ about this! Please Will?” Her eyes are pleading and her voice seems a little desperate. He hates how much it affects him.

“Okay. Fine. You’re dating someone. That’s great! Good for you!” He tries to say it with as much gusto and sincerity as one of her girlfriend’s would.

She grins appreciatively. “Thanks. But there’s another part to this that I need to talk to you about.”

“Which is?”

She weaves around that for a moment. “If you and MacKenzie _really_ wanted to date, you could...right?”

“You’re losing my attention, Sloan.”

“Stay with me,” she begs quickly, before repeating herself. “You could date if you wanted, right? Like...according to HR standards?”

At that, everything makes sense. “Are you asking me if dating Don is against the rules?”

She gasps, “I never said it was Don!” At his knowing glance, she surrenders and slumps in her seat. “Yeah, it’s Don.”

Will leans back in his chair and gestures with his hand. “He dated Maggie.”

She frowns. “I know, but—”

“Listen, Sloan. If Don could get away with dating an intern-turned-employee, he can definitely date you. Okay?”

She lets out a breath. “Really?”

“Yes.” He gets up and goes over to his little bar in the corner, then pours two scotches. She tries to decline it, but changes her mind almost immediately. She’s done working for the day, so scotch it is.

Sitting on the edge of the desk, Will studies her as he tumbles his glass. “You really like him, don’t you?”

She downs the drink in one sip, dissolving into a coughing fit once she swallows. “Yes, I do.”

He takes the empty glass back, then taps it against her shoulder. “Don’s a good guy.”

“He really is. It’s just...I’ve worked too hard for too many years to have people think I’m sleeping my way to the top.”

“No one will think that, I promise you. Besides, you’re practically at the top already. Eliminate me, and you and Elliot are top dogs. You got there without Don, didn’t you?” 

She smiles up at him. Even if she _did_ have a girlfriend to talk to, she’s glad she went to him. She winks. “Thanks bro.”

Once she’s done her chat with Will, she changes into her comfy clothes and heads to Hang Chews with the 8 o’clock team. MacKenzie claims they haven’t had girl time in a while, so she leaves a note on Don’s desk and heads out.

They’re only one drink in before Mac starts to get mushy. “Where have you been all my life, Sloan? You really are the _best_ girlfriend ever. Ever ever ever.”

“Aww. Well, you’re my _only_ girlfriend,” admits Sloan, laughing as she thinks back to an hour ago in Will’s office. “I don’t have time for other friends. Or I just can’t make other friends. I don’t know. It’s kind of sad.”

MacKenzie nods. “Ditto.”

“Is this seat empty?” They turn to see Maggie, who’s holding a bright drink in her hand that’s just a few shades lighter than her hair.

Mac pulls out the bar stool. “It’s yours.”

Exhaling with gratitude, Maggie clambers onto the seat. “Thanks.”

It’s awkward for a second, because Maggie keeps glancing over to look at the other group that consists of Neal, Jim, and Hallie, and then back to Sloan.

No one speaks to one other; they just keep drinking until Sloan can’t take it anymore. The scotch she had in Will’s office is making her feel a little loose and stupidly brave.

“So you know who keeps tweeting me?” she prompts, breaking the silence in a way that makes it more awkward. “Erica.”

Mac looks at her like she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, which is accurate, but Sloan just holds her attention on Maggie.

She continues, “Yeah, she keeps sending me links to her blog. And her stupid SATC FanFiction. I mean...why the fuck should I read that Erica? You never even took the video down!”

Maggie flashes an annoyed look that reads _why are you even bringing this up right now?_ but Sloan keeps rambling. Because she can’t look at Maggie—sad, red-haired Maggie—without feeling a truckload of guilt.

“She’s such a bitch. I should say something to Lisa,” she says, nodding and agreeing with herself. “Yeah I should talk to Lisa and tell her it’s my fault. I was rude to Erica and she got mad and didn’t take it down and—”

“Just...stop,” Maggie cuts in. “Please?”

Sloan cringes at herself. “Sorry. I just feel bad. I mean, there was Africa and then this happened and now Jim is dating someone else, and I’m...”

Between them, Mac takes that as a cue to leave and downs her drink. “I’ll be right back.” She excuses herself and goes towards the other group. After she’s gone, Sloan moves into the empty seat, closer to Maggie.

More quietly, she explains, “Maggie, I’m terrible at these types of situations—reading people’s emotions, knowing when to shut up, when to...” She lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’m working on it—I promise. But I...I need to tell you something.”

Maggie beats her to the punch. “I know you’re dating Don. I’m not blind.”

“Oh. You knew. Okay.”

To be honest, Sloan’s a bit surprised. (And a _little_ annoyed. She thought they were being pretty sly about it, but apparently not well enough. Mac doesn’t even know.)

Maggie looks at her in the eyes and rests her hand over Sloan’s. “It’s okay. I’m okay with it. You don’t need to hide it.”

“I didn’t—I mean—we weren’t...we weren’t trying to be _sneaky_ about it. It just...”

“... _happened,_ ” Maggie finishes. “I get it.” There’s a beat of silence before she adds, “Don’s a good guy. He really likes you, Sloan. I can tell. We gave it a good run, but in the end...we just weren’t right for each other.”

“Thanks Maggie.” Sloan looks down at her lap, feeling relieved to have finally cleared the air in a way that won’t ruin their friendship. But now she has to return the favor.

“I’m sorry, Mags, but I gotta order you something stronger than that. That thing couldn’t even get my grandma drunk. And she’s smaller than you.”

For the first time all night, Maggie cracks a smile. It completely transforms her face and overshadows her flaming hair, which looks all the more vibrant under the bar lights.

The other group erupts in laughter and both women turn to look at what’s going on. Mac twirls and does a silly bow before walking back over to the bar, looking a little more tipsy than she did when she left them five minutes ago. She’s out of breath by the time she reaches them again. “Everything good over here?”

Maggie smiles and looks at Sloan. “Yeah, we’re good.”

“Fabulous! We ladies need to stick together, you know.” She moves to stand in the middle of Maggie and Sloan and wraps her arms around both. “A recurring nightmare of mine is more men in the newsroom. And I know that makes me sound a little sexist, but who gives a damn.”

Laughing, but choosing not to continue that topic, Sloan changes the subject. “Soo...what are you ladies doing tomorrow?”

Mac answers first. “I’ve got to go to the market. I may try to go running, too. I think I should start running more.”

Smiling, Sloan looks to Maggie expectantly, but sees her attention is back on Jim and Hallie. She doesn’t know if Jim’s aware of their stares, but regardless, he chooses that exact moment to plant a kiss on his new girlfriend’s lips. The action makes Maggie sink in her seat.

“Maggie, this may be another time where I should just shut up...but can I ask you something?”

Maggie just shrugs, giving up. “What?”

“If you want Jim—which I know you do, so there’s no point in refuting it—what the hell are we going to do about your hair?”

Five minutes later, Sloan and Mac have all of Saturday and Sunday planned out. While Mac calls her realtor, Sloan calls her personal hairstylist to set up an appointment. 

By Sunday, thanks to the joint forces of her co-workers, Maggie has an affordable, but charming, studio in midtown and a stylish blonde pixie cut. She feels lighter and more optimistic than she has in months.

When Sloan crawls into bed that evening, she lets out a happy sigh. “If this economist/journalist thing doesn’t work out...I could totally be a life coach. I kicked ass this weekend.”

Don leans in and kisses her cheek, chucking against her skin. He hasn’t seen her all weekend, and although he had been bummed that she was using their two free days to spend time with her girlfriends, he’s just glad he has her back in his bed.

“I mean...she looks _amazing_. Not just from the makeover, but just...like she has it all together again, you know?”

He’s kissing down her neck now, failing at distracting her, and mumbles, “Sloan?”

“Yeah?”

“I think it’s awesome you helped out Maggie—really, I do—but can you please stop talking about my ex-girlfriend while I’m trying to seduce you?”

Tugging him up so she can kiss him properly, she nods. “Yeah, that’s no problem.”

 

**vi.**

 

Don Keefer falls in love with Sloan Sabbith at the grocery store.

Well, he’s been in love with her for a little while now, but Aisle 12 really carves it in stone for him.

It’s been a shitty day in the newsroom and when they finally leave, he knows two things: 1) He wants to go as far away from Hang Chews as possible and 2) He wants to go with _her_.

They go to Heidi’s House, where they split the lobster mac and cheese and a few beers. They are the last ones there and, after the waiter gives them his fifth glare, they finally leave. They decide on her place tonight; it’s closer and, well, therefore so is the bed.

Out on the sidewalk, he puts up his hand to flag down a cab and watches Sloan start to say something from the corner of his eyes. Except she shuts her mouth almost immediately.

“What?” She’s not usually shy around him.

“Nothing,” she answers quickly.

He gives her a look that says, _It’s late, so just tell me—_

“Wednesday is my grocery day,” she rushes out. His face doesn’t change. “It’s Wednesday.”

She shifts her weight and ends up closer to him. The side of her body is flush against his and yeah. They need to get to that bed.

Don smiles, a little amused. “Okay. It’s also...” he glances at his watch, “almost midnight.”

He loses that battle the second she bats her eyes at him.

They’re at the Food Emporium five minutes later, where the bleary-eyed employees give them a ten-minute warning before they close down the registers.

Sloan grabs a basket and turns to Don. “Let’s divide and conquer. I’ll do dairy and produce, you do peanut butter, wheat bread, and Oreos. I’ll meet you here in five.”

“You eat Oreos?” he asks, but she’s already running towards the dairy aisle. He starts with the cookies first and, after scanning the shelf, half-wonders if she’s a double-stuffed, chocolate-covered, or mint gal. He grabs the original, but makes a mental note to look up when Oreos started coming out in so many goddamn variations.

He scans the signs above the rows for _bread_ and spots it in Aisle 12. He grabs the first loaf of wheat he sees and the peanut butter jar above it before hearing Sloan walk up behind him.

“Hey.” She sounds out-of-breath. He looks at her flushed face and heaving chest; she’s somehow filled up the entire basket with food while he’s managed to get three items. She frowns at his armful. “What the hell?”

Sloan grabs the peanut butter from his hand. “Skippy? _Really?_ ”

He frowns back. “You asked for peanut butter.”

Sighing, she places the jar back on the shelf before taking the one next to it. “Yeah, I did.” She waves the jar of Jif. “ _This_ is peanut butter. _That_ is something being passed off as peanut butter.”

He forces his mouth not to smile. “Are you serious?” Half of him is feeling defensive, because he messed up 33.3% of what she asked of him, but the other half is completely enamored.

She looks at him like he’s crazy. “Um, do you call out-selling Skippy every year since 1981 serious? Because then...yeah. I am.”

He’s full-on grinning now, (and so in love with her it’s crazy), and doesn’t care if she sees it. “Choosy economists choose Jif,” he simply replies.

She smiles back at that. “You bet they do. Alright, let’s check out.”

Once they make it to her apartment, they struggle through putting away the groceries before readying for bed. He puts on a pot of tea for her—Sleepytime Tea, always—grabs a sleeve of Oreos and watches her walk from the bedroom to the bathroom. She’s already in a Duke tee that’s faded with age and lacy boy shorts. She looks sexy as hell, even in that, but he knows he’s not going to get lucky tonight. After a few weeks of dating, he’s come to observe that once that shirt is on—that specific gray Duke tee, oddly—she’s in the mode of Going To Bed.

As the tea brews, he brushes his teeth and strips down to his boxers, throwing his shirt into her hamper before shutting off the bathroom light. She’s reading something on her phone when he carefully lowers into bed, so he takes a cautious sip of the tea that’s surely going to spill when he passes it to her.

“Thanks,” she mumbles distractedly, eyes darting from her screen to the mug he’s handing her. She takes a small taste and hums in content.

“Headlines?”

She starts doing that thing where she worries her bottom lip between her teeth, before plugging in her phone and setting it on the bedside table. “Nothing to note. Besides, I was mainly looking at numbers.”

“Figured. And?”

“Sprint’s making me richer every day,” she shares happily, before getting all newsroom-y. “It’s rising like fire. I’m projecting it to be one of the most profitable stocks of this year.”

“Nice.” He reaches to the table on his side and grabs a cookie from the sleeve. Putting one in front of her face, he asks, “Oreo?”

She stares at the cookie for a moment, internally debating whether or not to accept it. She’s really tempted, he can tell. “I already brushed my teeth,” she whines, clearly wanting to eat it.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Sloan snatches it from his hand, twisting the cookie before passing him the side without any cream. Once she’s swallowed it, he leans over and kisses the crumbs off her mouth. When his tongue meets hers she tastes like chocolate and her minty toothpaste and he swears he would give up producing the news if it meant he could stay right here, forever. He settles on top of her, holding most of his weight on his elbows, and leans into her warmth. She snakes her arms around his neck, pulls him closer, and sighs.

They make out for a while, feeling each other up like teenagers, but stopping whenever things get too heated. She’s got an early class tomorrow and he knows she hates when her students insinuate if she had a late night. (He may have also left a very noticeable hickey on her neck one time. She was not thrilled when she realized it after class.) Tearing his mouth from hers, he moves his lips down her cheek, then chin, then neck, then collarbone, before pulling her collar down a little and hovering his mouth right over her heart. After kissing it softly, he bites a little mark into the patch above the beating skin.

(It'll be covered tomorrow. They'll never know.)

He rests his lips on her pulse for a few seconds before saying, simply, “I love you.” He doesn’t know why he chooses now to tell her, but it seems perfectly right.

She tugs on his hair so she can look at him. “You do?”

“Yes. I do.” He says it with an absolute finality she’s not used to hearing from men. “I love you, Sloan Sabbith.” He leans in to kiss her soundly, reveling in her taste, the feeling of her lips, her smell,  _her._

She pulls away suddenly, and the loss of contact makes him groan in protest. “Sloan—”

“Shut up. Sorry—that was rude—but just....give me a second.” Her face is serious and emotional, so he obliges immediately.

Cradling his head with her hands, Sloan traces the contours of his face with her thumbs, skimming across his cheeks, down the slope of his nose, and across his lips. Her touch is gentle and more intimate than he expects, and so he waits patiently for whatever’s going to happen next.

It’s worth the wait.

“I love you, too.”

 

**vii.**

 

A few weeks later, when she walks into the ACN offices, she spots Don almost immediately. He’s sitting at Neal’s desk—Neal nowhere to be seen—with his feet up on the table and a pen between his lips. Notes are lying in his lap and clearly in the process of being rewritten. He looks really cute.

She’d had to speak at Columbia’s open house at eight this morning and desperately needs coffee, so she doesn’t interrupt him and just heads for the kitchen.

She gets ten feet before hearing, “Sabbith!”

Sloan pivots in place and walks over to him slowly, taking her time saying good morning to the people-riddled workstations. 

Don leans back in the chair, tucks the pen behind his ear, and folds his hands behind his head. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

Since she had to meet with a student before the open house and hit the gym, she was out of his apartment by six. He was out cold, so she never woke him up.

“How was the thing?”

She frowns. “Boring. But I think I convinced a bunch of prospective students to study economics.” 

“That’s not surprising.”

“Yeah,” she replies proudly, before her smile diminishes. “But then I mentioned something about Ivy League tuition prices and how they may not be worth the investment in a few years versus more affordable, non-Ivy schools—”

“Oh god.”

She cringes. “I know. It was a bad joke.”

“No shit,” he laughs, twisting his chair from side to side. “Were parents there?”

“Yeah.” She waits a beat before adding, “And the Dean. He didn’t look too happy.”

He almost feels sorry for her, but then remembers how long her class waiting-lists are. She could come out and say Columbia is the worst college to ever exist and they’d still keep her as a professor. “Sloan _,_ you’re never good at landing jokes like that.”

“I know. I’ll learn someday. One day,” she replies dreamily. She nods towards the kitchen. “I need coffee.”

He gets up and follows her there, making himself a cup since it smells good, before walking back to her office with her. As she slips off her coat, she turns on two of the four televisions to ACN and CNBC. Her eyes trail the tickers running across the screen and catches up on the morning’s action.

He lets her take a sip of coffee before he tells her. “I need you to cover for Elliot.”

Her eyes flick from the TV to him. “Tonight? Okay.”

“...and the rest of the week.”

She crinkles her forehead in confusion, because surely she’s misheard him. Today is Monday. So “all week” would mean...

“W-what?!”

This is going to take longer than he’d thought, so he sinks into a chair. “Yeah, he’s out for the rest of the week. Something with his wife. Threatened miscarriage, I think. She’s in the hospital.”

Her eyes widen with worry. “Oh my gosh!”

“Yeah. She’ll be okay, but Elliot’s out for the time being.  Charlie said we could call someone up from DC for a few days, but last time we did that Jerry Dantana happened.”

Her eyes narrow at the mention of the name.

Don continues, “But then we thought, well, we also have a perfectly qualified replacement here too.” He looks at her straight. “Who has filled in for him before. Who looks great on TV. Who’s a skilled teleprompter reader. Who won’t fuck up a tape. And who will do this for her boyfriend...”

She rolls her eyes and waves at him. “Hey boyfriend—you’re my boss in this situation.”

“Oh, right.” He smiles like it’s the best news he’s heard all day. “So _as_ your boss, can I ask you to cover for him?”

“A whole week? That’s a different ballgame, Don.”

He nods, because all teasing aside, he understands her hesitation. “I know. But you’ll be great. It’s nothing you haven’t done before,” he reminds her.

She sighs. “I guess. Okay, fine.”

He claps his hands together and grins. “Wow, and I didn’t even need to use my secret weapon.”

She purses her lips in curiosity. “Which is?”

“Giving you an extra five minutes of numbers talk.”

Sloan’s mouth opens in shock. “Bullshit. I’m still getting that.”

“Yeah, I figured.” He stands up to leave. “I’ll go tell Charlie, then gather the team. Let’s say...meeting in fifteen?”

She takes another long sip of coffee, fueling her energy for the day. This week just got way longer. “Sounds good.”

“One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

He leans in so his nose brushes hers. “Hi,” he says, kissing her soundly. She deepens it immediately, whimpering when she feels his tongue tangle hers and lessen the ache she’s felt since this morning. The day’s never as good without morning sex.

“Hi.”

He presses a final kiss to the corner of her mouth before stepping back. “See you in a few.”

Sloan’s week at the desk goes off without a hitch. (It helps that there’s no natural disaster or national catastrophe to report.) Thankfully she listens to everything Don says—takes his cues, follows his notes, and obeys his “go-to-commercial-right-the-fuck- _now”_ directions—unlike the Japanese nuclear mishap. She’s so nervous—for what reason, Don doesn’t know—that he enjoys ruffling her feathers a little bit. From the time they’d started their relationship until now, they’ve been very low-PDA in the office. But for this week, he allows himself to whisper dirty things into her earpiece during commercial breaks to take her mind off of her nerves. Not only does it work, but she gets so turned on she barely makes it through the post-show meeting with the team before dragging him home and having her way with him.

(That week, they have the best sex of their entire relationship. Thus far.)

 

 **viii**.

 

He visits her class one day, sneaking in the back to catch the final thirty minutes. There are about forty students in the room, all sitting in sloped movie-theater-style seating, with a giant projection screen hanging from the ceiling.

Don sits in the highest row, all the way on the end. If it were any other professor, they’d notice him right away and probably tell him to leave. But it’s Sloan, and her attention is focused only on the student who’s currently speaking. She nods at the girl, listening intently to her point, before refuting it respectfully and in a way that’s educational. He doesn’t understand what they’re talking about, but he doesn’t really care. He just likes watching her.

When five minutes remain, she hands out an assignment to the class. “Now that we’re more than half-way through the semester, I get to tell you about my favorite part of this course: term papers!” She sounds way more excited than her students look. “I swear, out of all the papers you’ll write for this school, this one will be the best.”  She laughs at her own joke. “Okay, it probably won’t be...but it’s an interesting one.”

A random kid calls out, “What’s the topic?”

“I was about to tell you,” she replies, mildly annoyed at his impatience and waving the piece of paper in her hand. “This semester, I’m being extra nice by loosening the reigns a little bit. You have to submit a 15-page paper on a famous economist. Who are they? How did they influence our economy? Where would we be today if not for their contribution? Think outside the box. I don’t want to read another paper on Karl Marx.” Sloan looks around the room. “Sound good?”

There’s a solid mix of groans and happy reactions.

She smiles. “And I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to write about someone other than me.” Jumping off the desk, she’s the only one who laughs at her own joke again and let’s the class go.

He strolls down the aisle as she packs up her briefcase. “If I had you as a professor in college...” He shakes his head and whistles. “I’d never graduate.”

She looks up in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d visit my alma mater. Try out an economics class. See what the fuss is all about.”

“And?”

“In one ear and,” he mimes _out the other._

She chuckles and hits him on the shoulder. “You’re lucky I like you a lot, Keefer. Because people who diss Econ? They don’t sit well with me.”

“Oh yeah?” he flirts.

Sloan hums a reply. “Mmmhmm.”

She’s got those sexy reading glasses on and smells like his shampoo and he’s really tempted to kiss her. But he knows she’d be worried about a student (or another professor) walking in on them, so he just takes her briefcase, leads them outside, and settles for making out in the cab all the way back to work.

 

**ix.**

 

A week later, he walks into the newsroom bullpen and sees no one at their desks; they’re all in the conference room, crowded around someone. Mind immediately racing about what could’ve _possibly_ happened during his dentist appointment, he jogs to the glass-encased gathering.

He whips open the door. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Tess speaks up first. “Oh my gosh, Don, you _have_ to see how cute she is!”

“What the—” His voice dies down when the group widens and shows Sloan, holding a...baby?  “Oh, Christ,” Don breathes out, but smiles all the same. The pieces come together at once.

“Don! Come meet my niece!” The baby—Harper—in her arms looks about two months old, so very tiny, and bundled up in this soft, pink blanket.  Don walks over to her slowly, not liking _at all_ that this has to be in front of the entire news staff.

Then he remembers he’s the boss. “Okay, everyone. Back to your desks. Baby time is over,” he announces, ignoring their groans. “Sloan, let’s go to your office.”

She gently rises to her feet. “Uh, my sister’s asleep in there.”

“Okay then... _my_ office.”  He ignores the mental freak-out he’s having when he remembers this will be the first family member of Sloan’s he’s meeting, besides the baby.

He thinks back to the weekend she was born. It was right after the Genoa fallout and Sloan had barely been able to take a train down to Philly to meet her for the first time. She’d asked if he wanted to go, but he gently declined. Before she could think about his rejection too much, he’d explained that while he couldn’t wait to meet her family, he didn’t want to take the focus off of the birth of the first grandchild. She’d eventually agreed that he was right.

As they walk through the bullpen, he continues to fend off “ _But can I just see her one more time?_ ” before making it to the privacy of his office.

“How’d your sister end up asleep?” he asks as he takes off his jacket, amused.

Sloan’s gently rocking from side to side, looking down at the sleeping girl in her arms. “She came in to visit and handed me Harper and sat in the chair and...” She lifts her shoulder to explain the rest: she’s a new, exhausted parent.

Sloan continues swaying. Keeping Harper in a deep slumber and showing no signs of giving her up yet, Don takes a moment to take in the scene before him. The topic of kids never came up when he was dating Maggie. They were always breaking up and reuniting, and even though they were committed to one another, the future always seemed a little hazy. He can honestly say he never once thought about starting a family with her. He couldn’t imagine it.

Seeing Sloan with a baby, though—looking so natural cradling and rocking and kissing a little baby to sleep—has his heart thumping and swelling in a way he’s never felt before.

“Want to hold her?” she asks, grin wide and hopeful. They, themselves, have never ventured to the topic of kids, so she’s taking a chance on this whole activity.

He never really holds babies, and it’s not like he’s _scared_ of them, but—

“I’ll be here the whole time,” she says, interrupting his thoughts. “Man up. Hold her.”

His eyes narrow playfully, because he never said he didn’t want to. “Okay.” The baby is gently transferred to his arms and it’s almost alarming how light she is, even with all the blankets. “God, she feels like a piece of paper.”

“Hey! Don’t call my niece a piece of paper.”

“I didn’t—I mean—” He sighs. “Nevermind.” She bumps shoulders with him playfully to let him know she’s kidding, then brings her hand to the center of his back and looks down at Harper. It all feels very domestic, and while a little bit scary, he feels no need to rush from it.

“Is she not the _cutest?_ ”

He hums in agreement. Harper is adorable. “How long are they in town?”

Sloan takes a seat a few feet away, leaving him standing alone at the very moment Harper decides to blink open her eyes. She’s not crying though, so he stays calm.

“Just the day. Her husband’s here for a conference and Elise was sick of being house-bound.”

“Nice.” Curious, almond-shaped eyes look up at him, trying to focus on the unfamiliar person holding her, and he just about melts. “Hey, her eyes are almost the same color as yours.” From the experience of meeting his nephew as a baby, he knows all infants are born with blue eyes, but amazingly, he can see specks of green coming through.

“What?!” Sloan jumps up from her seat and is next to him in two seconds. “All morning she’s asleep and the second I give her to you she wakes _up?_ ” To Harper, she gently coos,“What the heck, baby girl? He didn’t even _want_ to hold you!”

“Hey!”

She mumbles an apology and smiles as Don transfers her back. 

She may be tough and—for the most part— unemotional in the news chair, but give her a baby and she goes completely soft.

Later that night, after he’s met her sister (which went smoothly) and produced a news show (which for many reasons...didn’t), he sinks into bed with a sigh of relief. Sloan’s still brushing her teeth, so he picks up his phone to check on their Scrabble game. She’d made him download the app so they could play each other during the day. He’s not sure why she asked him, considering he’s terrible, but it’s actually been a pretty good distraction at work some days. Especially in meetings. And especially when she thinks she’s hilarious by starting a game using only dirty words, like the board they’re playing now.

He jumbles his letters a few times before spelling out the word _condom_. It’s his longest word so far and he’s pretty proud of himself, even if it is mild in inappropriate-standards.

When she walks out her bathroom, she continues to rub in the lotion she’s just applied on her neck and arms. She’s dressed in a thin tank top and barely-there panties and just completely oblivious to the effect she has on him. He wants her. _Now._

As if hearing his inner thoughts, Sloan turns off the TV and strips off her thong. Crawling on the bed, she straddles his waist and brushes his hair off his forehead. “You looked pretty sexy today holding Harper.”

He runs his hands up her arms. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmmhmm,” she hums, leaning down to press a heated kiss to his lips. She sighs into his mouth as he deepens it, and slowly settles her body on top of him. She bucks her hips suggestively and smiles when he groans. “We should do that one day. The baby thing.”

He’s so caught off guard, he nearly falls off the bed. But then she twists in his lap again and his attention snaps back her.

“Okay.” He leans up to kiss her. “You looked pretty good yourself,” he murmurs against her lips, flipping them so he can be on top now. “But I think I prefer you just...like...this...” He kisses her after each word, before skimming his mouth across her cheek to suck lightly on her earlobe. A whimper escapes her lips at the feeling and she instinctively wraps her legs more tightly to grind against him.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, propping himself up. Hovering over her, he begins kissing his way down her neck and collarbone, lavishing every inch of flesh he possibly can. He stops to lift the tee off of her body, leaving her completely nude, and continues his path down her skin.

His attention moves to her breasts, and he teases her with his mouth and fingers until she’s writhing beneath him. “ _Don_ , _”_ she moans. "I need you." She's desperate for more friction and for his boxers to be _off._

She pushes them off with her feet and sucks in a breath when he takes another moment to kiss a particularly sensitive spot on her neck. He knows all of her weak spots by now and knows exactly how to drive her wild. The feeling of him right where she needs him most has Sloan canting her hips up towards his, and when he finally sinks into her, they both sigh in relief.

He keeps their pace slow; he’s so full of emotions and visions of his future with her that he wants to make it last as long as he can. So he does. He just rocks against her gently, listening to his name being whispered through her lips over and over again like a mantra, until the sensation finally brings them both over the edge. He doesn’t care that they need to catch their breaths; he just presses his mouth to hers anyway. He kisses her as if he’ll never get the chance to again, even though it’s what he’ll be doing for the rest of his life. He just simply takes comfort in the fact that they’ve chosen each other for _forever_ , for all of the good and bad in life, and so he flips her over to do it all again.

 

**x.**

 

It’s the week before Christmas and the last day of work before their much needed, albeit short, holiday break. Everyone is practically on vacation mentally, though; Mac even set the shot-clock she’d gotten months ago to count down to the start of the break.

While the 8 o’clock team packs up to finally leave, Sloan sits in an empty chair in the control room and looks over the term papers her students handed in earlier in that day. She’s got five days to read and mark them before final grades need to be submitted and with the upcoming week being a busy one, she’s using every free minute she has. After working many years in the newsroom, she’s acquired the ability to drown out the sound room noise and focus on whatever requires her attention...which is why she’s chosen this place to read the papers.

But more importantly, she also has to wait for Don to be done his show.

It’s the top of the C story and Elliot’s interviewing the VP of Macy’s. They’re chatting about this season’s holiday sale trends—a segment Don wasn’t thrilled about, but approved anyway.  It’s pretty risk-free, so he mutes his headset and meanders over to Sloan.

“How many of those do you need to read?” he asks, keeping his eyes on the monitors.

She underlines a sentence with her pen and doesn’t look at him either. “Forty.”

“Jesus.”

She shrugs. “I don’t care. This is fun for me.”

He quickly glances at her. “Weirdo.”

She juts her chin up proudly. “I take that as a compliment.”

“Oh course you do,” he replies, before rolling his eyes at the screens. Don turns his mouthpiece on and speaks into it. “Elliot, please get this lady to mention Hanukah at least _once_. I don’t need another ‘ACN favors Christianity debate.’” He switches it off again. To Sloan this time, he says, “She is literally only talking about Christmas gifts. God, I’m so ready to get out of here.”

“You and me both, Keefer. You and me both. So get producing so we can leave.”

It’s only another thirty minutes before their own vacation starts. The second they walk out of the ACN offices, snow starts falling for the first time this season, and they can’t help but laugh at the sheer serendipity of the moment. Don watches Sloan as she looks up at the falling snow, before starting an off-key, awful, yet amazingly perfect rendition of “White Christmas”. When she stops after two verses and the chorus—after being egged on by kind passerbys—she looks at him with rosy cheeks and flake-filled lashes. She’s so gorgeous his heart skips a few beats.

Sloan’s eyes sparkle with excitement. “Let’s go home and make hot cocoa and build a fire.”

He’s a kid at heart too—even more so with her—so he takes her mittened hand, brings it up to his lips to kiss it, then flags a cab to bring them home.

Home has taken on a new meaning. It’s wherever they are together, really. But he’s slowly spending more and more time at her place.  At this point, his clothes are there and her cabinets are filled with food he likes and his towel has a designated rack. But she also has a toothbrush at his place and her favorite moisturizer and three back-up boxes of Sleepytime Tea in his kitchen. He’s tempted to sell his apartment, but knows what she wants before he officially moves in.

He has the ring. He’s had it for a little while now, and he’s wanted to put it on her finger for even longer.

But he waits a few more months, until he’s totally _in_ with her family and considers them an extension of his own. Until she meets everyone in his, and charms them so much they consider exiling him to have her all to themselves. He waits until just past their one-year anniversary. He’d gotten her a first-edition Scrabble board for her birthday a few weeks back and they’d started a new Sunday morning tradition. She makes coffee while he sets up the game and they play until all the letters are gone. She beats him every week. Every goddamn week. But this Sunday, while she’s making their coffee—her’s: cream and sugar; his: totally black—he’ll be spelling out _MARRY ME_ on the board.

So, this week? He’ll win.

 


End file.
